Chapter 53
‘Try to sleep, sweetheart,’ Jack murmured and pulled her close.
She did sleep eventually but a victim of her own disturb-ing thoughts, she tossed and turned. Images of Hélène came and went. Hélène red-faced, Hélène angry, Hélène shouting. Even more painful, she pictured Claudette alive, laughing, making elderflower champagne, full of vitality.
After an hour or so of fitful sleep, Florence woke early. In the half-light she listened to Jack’s breathing. Then it changed, grew lighter, and when he woke too, they made love very gently. It seemed important that in the midst of death you had to own the fact that you were alive.
‘You’re thinking of all the times you spent with your mother?’ he asked when it was over, and she lay beside him.
‘How did you know?’
‘I was like that when my grandmother died. I had to revisit every year going further and further back until there was nowhere left to go.’
‘Yes.’
‘There’s no point fighting the memories even if they make you cry. They come whether you want them or not.’
‘Like shadows … But she isn’t dead yet.’
‘No,’ Jack said, ‘but you are preparing yourself emotionally for what is to come. It’s inevitable.’
‘I should have looked after her, instead of coming back to Devon.’
‘Don’t be so hard on yourself. She refused your help. When someone dies, everybody blames themselves.’
‘I had a dream last night. I was running and running but couldn’t get anywhere.’
‘I’ve had that one.’
‘What do you think it means?’
‘Maybe you’re trying to escape your mother’s death?’ he suggested.
‘I thought that, but I wonder if it really means … well I feel like I’ve got too many things going on my mind, and I can’t get away from them.’
‘You mean Hélène, don’t you, on top of what’s happening to Claudette?’
Florence sighed. ‘She hates me. My sister hates me.’
‘Has she said that?’
‘No.’
‘You’re projecting your fear onto her. While she’s nursing your mother, it’s probably all she’s got room for. Imagine how hard it must be for her. Just wait. You’ll get a chance to talk. Give her time.’
At the breakfast table they met Rosalie, who didn’t look as if she’d slept much either. But at least I do have Jack, Florence thought, while Rosalie is alone.
During the following days they all lived under a cloud of anxiety, tense and on edge, offering each other cautious smiles that quickly vanished behind lines of worry.
Rosalie sat with her sister for hours, gently reminiscing when Claudette was awake, but most of the time she simply held her hand, or stroked her paper-thin skin. Florence came and went, as did élise.
One day they all seemed to arrive in Claudette’s room at the exact same time, as if instinct had warned them it wouldn’t be long, the air in the room heavy, the atmosphere sombre and sad.
Claudette’s breathing was irregular and seemed to stop for a few seconds.
Florence froze. Could this be it? Then her mother’s mouth opened, and she caught a breath.
Florence gently stroked her face, cool to the touch, the skin blotchy.
Hélène spoke softly, ‘It is all right to let go, Maman,’ she said.
Then Florence heard little Victoria singing to herself as she lay in her cot in the bedroom she was sharing with élise. Hélène usually slept on a sofa close to their mother’s bed.
In the silence of Claudette’s room, the words came again in the young child’s sweet halting voice.
Alouette, gentille alouette
Alouette, je te plumerai
It was a French song they all recognised.
Claudette, who had looked as if she was sleeping, or even unconscious, opened her eyes, and Florence thought she heard her hum a couple of notes and smile in recognition.
Then Claudette’s breath quickened just for a moment, the muscles of her face sagged, and she looked even paler, emptier, not like herself any more.
That was it. She was gone. The final invisible thread that had held her to life had been severed.
The moment when life had been there and then was not had finally happened.
Hélène checked Claudette’s pulse and then crossed herself.
Florence gasped but held on to her tears.
élise, who had been standing by the window farthest from her mother’s bed, came across and placed Claudette’s hands crossed on her chest, then she kissed her forehead.
Hélène sat down on the sofa, head in her hands.
Florence longed to comfort her, but Rosalie got there first and she held Hélène, who began to weep.
They were such heart-wrenching sobs that, as if by mutual agreement, élise and Florence left the room.
Victoria called out for her mother anxiously so the two sisters got her up, gave her some warm milk, wrapped her up and then took her away from the grieving household for a walk up the hill.
They all wore their hats pulled down low, thick coats buttoned up tight, scarves wrapped around their faces, and heavy boots, but they still felt bitterly cold. Florence didn’t know if her eyes were watering because of the icy wind or if it was because she was crying.
‘Mamaaan,’ Victoria complained. ‘J’ai froid.’
‘I know, sweetheart, I know. Shall we run? See who gets to the top of the hill first?’
‘Oui.’
And they ran, swinging the little girl between them.
Over the next few days, ordinary tasks kept them busy.
Once the doctor issued the death certificate, élise contacted the funeral director, who came the same day.
She contacted the vicar, too. Hélène seemed to have crumpled, all her energy consumed by making her mother’s final weeks comfortable.
In France, Hélène’s insistence on everyday rituals had held them together.
Now she seemed undone. The shopping, cooking and most of the washing-up fell to Florence but she felt as if she was walking on eggshells around her sister.
élise called the vicar, organised the flowers and with Florence’s help devised an order of service.
élise and Florence played with Victoria, fed her, kept her relatively happy in a house that was full of sadness and regret.
Jack mainly stayed out of the way at the hotel, keeping a broken-hearted Rosalie company.
The news of Claudette’s death had circled the village and people came to the door with condolence cards and bunches of winter flowers from their gardens. Some brought food – cakes and biscuits – and others came with offers of assistance.
‘Your mother was a great help during the war,’ one older lady said as she handed over a ginger cake. ‘We all did our bit for the WI.’
‘I’m so glad to hear that,’ Florence said. ‘And thank you.’
Although crisp and cold, the sun shone on the day of the funeral, the sky so blue it almost hurt, and the church was packed.
They held the wake in the village hall because Claudette’s cottage was far too small.
Towards the end, while Jack took Victoria to the swings, and once people had begun drifting away, élise took Florence aside.
‘Did you know she was so popular here?’
‘I knew she was involved in the war effort. I suppose it must have brought the villagers closer together. Something like that might.’
‘And, they weren’t occupied by the bloody Boche here.’
‘It must have made a difference. They were all on the same side. In France we weren’t.’
‘Have you spoken to Hélène yet?’
‘She doesn’t seem to want to.’
‘No. Maybe not yet but once all this is over, and it nearly is, neither of you will have an excuse not to speak.’
Florence sighed as Rosalie came up to the sisters. ‘Well, this sherry is ghastly, isn’t it? Coming to the hotel for a decent drink?’
They nodded.
‘I’m so glad you found me … in time, Florence,’ Rosalie added.
While Rosalie went to look for Jack and Victoria, Florence waited for her sisters but after a few moments only élise turned up, shaking her head. ‘Hélène won’t come.’
‘Where is she?’
‘Still standing by the grave. Reading all the cards.’
‘You go ahead. I’ll talk to her.’
After élise had gone to join Rosalie, Jack and Victoria, Florence headed to the grave at the back of the church. It was a beautiful location looking out onto cattle grazing in the open countryside.
‘Hélène,’ she said hesitantly as she drew close. ‘Could we talk?’
Her sister looked up and Florence’s throat constricted at the sight of the distress in her sister’s intelligent eyes.
‘What is it?’ she asked as gently as she could.
Hélène’s eyes suddenly blazed. ‘You don’t know?’
Florence didn’t know what to say. Was her sister talking about Jack?
‘Then I’ll tell you,’ Hélène continued. ‘Can you imagine looking after our mother alone, watching her die day after day all on your own?’
‘I’m so sorry.’
Hélène didn’t seem to hear but gave a sharp little laugh. ‘And do you know what she talked about? All that time?’
Florence shook her head.
‘You. You and Rosalie. Nothing else. When élise and Victoria arrived, she barely looked at her granddaughter. And you just swan around Malta and arrive at the eleventh hour with Jack.’
Florence gasped. ‘I wasn’t swanning. I was doing what she wanted me to do. She begged me, Hélène, begged me to find Rosalie.’
‘How convenient, and now I suppose you want my blessing?’
The bitter wind of the English winter served only to make the atmosphere more strained.
‘Please, Hélène. This isn’t you. Can’t we try to be civilised?’
Hélène snorted disdainfully. ‘You didn’t care about being civilised when you took what you wanted.’
‘It wasn’t like that.’
‘No?’
‘Of course not.’
‘How was it then? You knew I loved Jack, Florence, you knew and yet you still did it.’
Florence hung her head. That much was true.
‘You thought I was going to say, never mind, you have him, little sister. You thought I was going to say that?’
‘I’m sorry,’ Florence began carefully, needing to choose her words and hating herself for hurting her sister. ‘I hoped with the passage of time you’d understand.’